Enter Pale Death (6 page)

“I’m surprised they were prepared to take an interest in a small-scale inside job.”

“They weren’t! I think they knew my father had no intention of bringing charges, but they went through the motions. They were glad to get away back to the city. They had an outbreak of murders on Midsummer Common on the go at the time. Much more their style!”

“What were the findings in the case?”

“Not sure it amounted to ‘a case.’ Notes were taken but
nothing so formal as a file ever came out of it, I’d say. Father wouldn’t have wanted that. Whatever it amounted to, it was swiftly wound up.”

“And your father’s requirements cut some ice with the city force?”

Truelove gave a dismissive grin. “You know how it is. He was at school with or in the same regiment as the Chief Constable—the old Chief Constable. I believe the station’s under new management these days.”

Joe’s suspicions were confirmed. He’d observed the progression of affairs like this before. The servants must have had iron-clad alibis; otherwise a dutiful country police force would have made arrests. One of the sons of the household, having open access to the artworks, could have snatched something small enough to put in his pocket. If Joe had been in charge of enquiries, he’d have determined which offspring had made a sudden dash abroad in the ensuing days or weeks. A nifty bit of arm-twisting at the local bookies and a consultation with the Yard’s expert in the Art Theft and Fraud Department would have settled the matter.

“Sir James, if you want me to pursue this crime after two decades and a world war, I don’t offer much encouragement. But we do have an excellent art affairs department here at the Yard. I’ll introduce you to its head and you can tell him what you have in mind. I’m sure we’d all like to know how these came to be in the possession of … who was it?… Mr. J. J. McKinley. Never heard of him. Christie’s are meticulous on verifying ownership and provenance. They wouldn’t knowingly be involved with stolen goods.”

“Not what I want at all! I’m not interested in unravelling the past. I live in the here and now, Sandilands. No, I just want your discreet self, Commissioner, for an hour or so on Wednesday to slip along to Christie’s and put in a bid on my behalf. These are
mine! I want them back, and I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes. I have a particular purpose for them. They couldn’t have surfaced at a better time, in fact!”

Joe paused for a moment to consider the man’s deeper motives. He could have chosen anyone as his agent in the matter. His lawyer, his secretary, a trusted colleague—there must have been dozens of men whose names came to mind before that of Sandilands. So what special trick could
he
possibly bring to the party? Joe thought he knew and the thought didn’t please him.

“Not sure who you think might be bidding against you, but I’m guessing that the mere presence of a top policeman sniffing about and showing a warm interest might well scare off any opposition? Is that what you’re calculating?”

The man didn’t deny it. In fact, he hurried with disarming relief to confess to manipulation. “Exactly that! The man I fear may turn up and bid against me is an international art expert and purveyor of dubious goodies to rich collectors. Almost certainly known to you. Name of: Despond. Guy Despond! He pronounces his Christian name the French way—‘Guee.’ Despond as in ‘slough of.’ He’s in town with his family. This includes a pretty daughter and two brattish sons. The father is of Eastern European origin, I believe. He speaks English with an American accent. His children speak in any language you care to name. They are all much travelled. Do you have anything on him?”

Joe pretended to consider this. “Your plan would be for me to feel his collar and heave him along to the clink to cool his heels until the sale is safely over? Sorry, can’t oblige.”

“I say—could you really do that? I must admit I hadn’t thought
that
far but—yes—it sounds like a corking idea to me!” Joe was surprised to hear Truelove chortle with boyish glee. “Shove him in the Bow Street nick for an hour or two! Sure you couldn’t …? Oh, well. Pity! You must be aware of his reputation?”

“I know what the world knows from the newspapers and
society reviews,” Joe said, noncommittal. “Tough opposition in a sale-room. He just has to show his face and people tear up their bidding cards and withdraw. Bottomless purse and a queue of rich customers on both sides of the Atlantic. He buys in Rome and sells to New York. Then he buys back in New York and ships the goods over the Atlantic again to London or Paris … The hold of the Berengaria is stuffed with goodies on almost any trip, I hear. A sort of floating Tate Gallery. I don’t like to imagine what would happen if she ever sank!”

“He’d make another fortune from the insurance companies. He’s careful. He’s very influential too. A self-promoting former of taste. Whatever Despond decides will be the next craze becomes exactly that—with inevitability.” Truelove was amused, if not admiring. “He’s not a man to just happen on clients. He seeks out rich men—women, too—and he cultivates them with the care of an obsessed grower of rare orchids. He educates them in his own tastes, he instils in them a thirst for a particular art form or artist, then dangles the very objects they now desire in front of their eyes. With a hefty price tag attached. I’ve seen less professional acts on stage at Wilton’s Music Hall,” he finished with bitterness.

From his tone, Joe wondered whether Truelove might be speaking from personal experience of Despond’s machinations.

“You’ll just have to hope he isn’t planning that this shall be the Year of the Miniature, sir,” he said lightly.

“I never place much store by ‘hope,’ Sandilands. Crossing fingers, pestering saints, tying ribbons around trees—not my style. I plan for what I want. That’s why I’m sending you in. I think you know what must be done. Will you do it?”

Joe had no intention of becoming the minister’s minion. He should have sent the upper-class chancer shirtily on his way, muttering darkly of the dangers of abuse of authority; should have delivered a flea in his ear, a kick up the derrière. Why wasn’t he
showing him the door? He recognised that he’d been captivated by a mystery, charmed by an ancient beauty and caught once again on the hook of the man’s ambition. All that, he could have resisted. No—more important—he was unable to turn down the chance of digging up more information on this unknown who threatened so much that was dear to him. Information Joe might store away and use to his advantage, should it ever become necessary. The more scurrilous, the better. Would that amount to blackmail? He rather thought it would. Perhaps, after all these years and all the bad examples, he was learning a lesson from Dorcas. She would have called it “taking sensible precautions against disappointment.”

“It’s a personal matter,” Truelove had announced.

“Too right!” Joe growled silently. But he heard himself saying: “I’ll see what I can do. I shall need to know your upper limit.” Truelove smiled in satisfaction. “Good man! Tell me—how are you planning to …?”

“Don’t concern yourself. I’ll just say—no need for clanking handcuffs or police whistles. There are quieter ways.”

“Ah! A touch of your sophisticated shenanigans? I can see I’ve come to the right shop! Oh, there is one thing more. I’m making it quite clear to the management that in the event of a successful bid I want possession of the goods at once. They are to hand them straight over to you after the sale. There won’t be a problem—I’ve dealt with them many times before. They’re aware of my impatient nature. I’ll collect the goods from your front desk. I’m assuming the front desk of Scotland Yard is a reasonably secure place to leave a pair of miniatures?”

“More secure, apparently, than your country seat, Sir James. Melsett, would that be?”

W
HEN HIS GUEST
had completed his briefing and left, Joe telephoned down to the inspector on reception. “Well, thanks for
that, Hawkins! What a treat you sent me! Look, I’m going to have to cancel the rest of my morning and my lunch hour. I shall be back at my desk at two o’clock, should the Prime Minister decide to pop in for a chat.”

He went to stand by his open window, breathing in lungfuls of air freshly filtered by the stout London planes below him until he felt calmer. The future Minister for Law and Order had just told him two whopping lies. He was only aware of two, it could well be more. The portraits? A smokescreen, a glittering diversion, Joe was quite certain. The man was clearly spending too much time at Wilton’s Music Hall. Joe grinned evilly. His lordship wasn’t to know how many hours his pet plod had spent in the line of duty, watching magic acts from the wings of seedy theatres in Soho. Joe knew all the tricks.

CHAPTER 3

With a hasty glance at his watch, Joe rang for his secretary and warned Miss Sturdy that he was going out and wouldn’t be back until after lunch. He took the time to make one or two phone calls himself to cancel the rest of his engagements and spent a further five minutes studying the catalogue Truelove had left with him. Only then did he ask to be put through to the Art Investigations Department for a consultation with its head, Superintendent Pearce.

A little reassured by what Pearce had to say, Joe prepared himself to take advantage of the advertised viewing time. One day before the actual sale, he reckoned he had probably missed the most fruitful moment to make his appearance, but he had to work with what he’d been given. He might not be lucky enough to be caught showing an interest by that smooth villain Despond himself—a busy boy like him was hardly likely to stick around personally in the sale-room for the whole week—but he would have his spies out at all times, observing and noting the names of anyone paying more than passing attention to any item he’d marked down for himself. Comment and gossip to the point of hysteria were rife in this world, and Joe was confident that the show he was about to put on would raise eyebrows and be the talk of St. James’s before lunch.
Christie’s would not be pleased, but there was little they could do about it.

He smiled to himself with mischief. Truelove’s brief had been short on information and shorter on tactics, but the required outcome was very clear. Joe would have his hands, by fair means or foul, on that pretty pair by the sale’s end the next day. Yes, having committed himself to Truelove’s mad scheme, he thought he might even begin to enjoy himself.

T
HE ELEGANT YOUNG
man on reception was astonished. At the sight of Joe, he took a step back. He adjusted his lilac tie. He began to stammer. “Um … er … I beg your pardon, sir … but are we expecting you this morning? I mean, should you
be
here? Is anyone aware?”

“Well, my mother knows I’m out,” Joe said genially.

He stood before the assistant in the entrance hall, holding his catalogue, his face alight with anticipation. He was aware of the reaction his appearance in full Assistant Commissioner’s dress uniform was causing. The navy suiting, the excess of silver braid, the smart peaked cap were all in place. He’d even gone as far as hunting out a medal or two. The DSO and the ribbon of the
Légion d’honneur
still caught attention, even in these weary-of-war times. Joe wore this eye-popping gear with the straight shoulders and aplomb of the professional soldier he had been some years ago.

“Don’t worry! Not here on police business. Just dropping in between fixtures to take a look at a pair of pictures that have taken my fancy. No time to slip into civvies.” He handed his card over. “Perhaps it would be polite to advise your director that there’s a friendly Scotland Yard presence in the room?” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile and suggested, “He may want to rush out with a screen.”

The assistant gulped, took the card and excused himself, hurrying off to find a higher authority to deal with this nuisance.

While his back was turned, Joe took the opportunity to nip into the viewing hall.

He stood in the doorway to the Great Room to get his bearings and assess the crowd. A second or two’s pause was long enough to absorb the atmosphere which never failed to excite him. He breathed in the warm scents of wood, leather, oil paint and polish and caught a passing high note of Penhaligon’s Hammam cologne. The room was well lit by natural light, and Joe raised his eyes to the high ceiling, as he’d always done, to watch in fascination the golden motes dancing upwards in the shafts of sunlight. His child’s imagination had made them out to be a precious mixture of slivers of gilding, specks of gold and silver and oil paint, but with his present knowledge of forensic science, he was ready to believe this fairy dust was in reality no more than flakes of human skin and possibly dandruff.

He glanced at the assembled company. Dapper city gents, suits from Savile Row, ties from Jermyn Street, haircuts from Raoul at Trumpers. No, perhaps no dandruff. Raoul didn’t permit dandruff.

Joe strode forward to the centre of the room and stood, taking in the scene. He slapped his gloves against his thigh and wished he’d had his officer’s swagger stick to hand. A thin crowd of no more than a dozen here, he decided, but enough to get the handle of the rumour-mill turning. And, at least, they were all looking at him. Conversation had stopped and speculative glances were being exchanged. He referred to his catalogue, checked the sale numbers of the miniatures he was interested in and made straight for them. All eyes followed him.

The portraits did not disappoint. He was instantly absorbed by them. Joe checked that his identification of the young officer’s uniform had been correct, nodding with relief to see the rich red colour of the velvet coat with its contrasting blue and gold flash. A fine young fellow.

Only then did he allow his gaze to fall on the young lady. In
colour she was even more appealing. The eyes were—as he’d assumed—blue, the hair had the colour and thickness of an August corn-stook. Her green dress was of a silk whose lustre the artist had seized on to express the undulation of a high and rounded bosom. The pearls encircling her neck were lavish. How painters enjoyed their pearls, Joe was thinking as he leaned closer to admire the glancing highlights. But the special quality of the portrait which, after more than a hundred years, leapt out and seized him by the heart was the expression on the girl’s face. The smile, just fading—or being suppressed—betrayed an intimacy between the sitter and the painter. Though almost certainly amounting to no more than a moment of shared merriment given the circumstances of the encounter, it yet revealed an understanding of character that no photographic image was capable of replicating, Joe thought with regret.